


veneration

by beccabuchanans (vestigialwords)



Series: City Lights [2]
Category: Triple Frontier (2019)
Genre: Aftercare, F/M, Female Masturbation, Hair Tugging, Oral Sex, adoration, gentle face-fucking, is that a thing?, mixed metaphors all up in this bish, over-use of petnames, so little plot it subtracted plot from my other WIPs just from being in the same document, tiniest reference to shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:07:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25152118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vestigialwords/pseuds/beccabuchanans
Summary: “Do you think we got them?”The door to your hotel room closes behind you and Santiago flips the deadbolt latch behind him out of habit. Denver is by far not the most dangerous place you’ve stayed, but some habits die hard. You flop down on the stiff couch and tug at the heavy laces of your boot. The lingering tipsy tendrils of your beer mingle pleasantly with the vicarious zing of adrenaline you always get standing ringside.
Relationships: Santiago "Pope" Garcia/Original Female Character(s), Santiago "Pope" Garcia/Reader
Series: City Lights [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1822051
Comments: 1
Kudos: 26





	veneration

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the inimitable [damerondjarin](http://damerondjarin.tumblr.com/) who wanted to read about Reader going to her knees for our good, good boy here. Originally posted on tumblr [HERE](https://mandoplease.tumblr.com/post/622946533518753792/veneration).

“Do you think we got them?”

The door to your hotel room closes behind you and Santiago flips the deadbolt latch behind him out of habit. Denver is by far not the most dangerous place you’ve stayed, but some habits die hard. You flop down on the stiff couch and tug at the heavy laces of your boot. The lingering tipsy tendrils of your beer mingle pleasantly with the vicarious zing of adrenaline you always get standing ringside. 

“Well, I was never worried about Benny. You ever known that man to walk away from a fight?” You huff with the exertion of yanking the first boot off your foot and dropping it unceremoniously to the floor. Santiago settles against the vanity counter and rubs absently at the scar across his collarbone–a jagged souvenir from a late-night encounter when Benny’s hot-tempered fists flew faster than intervention. “He’ll come out swingin’ with a shitkicking grin across his face. Still hasn’t learned to guard his fucking kidneys though.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Kinda thought Frankie would jump at the opportunity to get back in the pilot’s seat honestly. You were right to worry.” 

“I’m always right, Pope.” 

“Yes, honey. Yes, you are,” Santiago chuckles. “Think he’s really in?” 

“I think the last thing he wants to do is let us down.” 

“Fuck–” he winces and drags his hands down his cheeks. “Are we assholes?” 

You snort and shrug, dropping your second boot with a clatter and kicking them both against the wall. “Little bit.” 

“Do you think they’ll forgive us?”

“I think,” you muse, letting the words tumble out of your mouth as you push yourself up and cross the room toward him. He could walk the winding trails of shame for hours, maybe even days, get lost in the thick forests of guilt if you let him. So you block his path, wrap your hands around his neck and tug him gently toward you, wending him back to the present. “That if all goes to plan, you and I are not going to have much privacy for a while.” 

His hands fall away from his face, landing in the crooks of your elbows as his eyes sharpen and snap to meet yours. You take another step forward until you’re standing between his feet. He lets you invade his space without hesitation, sharing the intimate air between your bodies. You spread your fingers across the back of his head and drag him toward your mouth. He follows obediently, a willing captive, his warm lips filling in the unbearable gaps between you, a slow, comfortable complement to your movements.

He sighs into you as though he’s exhaling all of the melancholia in his chest as he switches gears, climbing out of the trench he had begun to dig for himself. His face breaks into a soft smile when you pull away to check on him, and he drops his forehead against yours. The tip of his nose brushes against yours as one of his hands lands at your jaw, and he runs his thumb against your bottom lip.

You dart your tongue out against his fingertip with a cheeky grin, a quick scrape of your teeth against the pad of his thumb. He gasps, his body convulsing in surprise, sending a bright spark rollicking down your spine and igniting desire deep in your belly. You part your lips again and surge toward him, taking the tip of his finger in your mouth and giving a gentle suck.

He gapes down at your lips, chest heaving like bellows fueling the blooming flame between your legs as you tip back again ever so slightly, letting your lower teeth scrape along his thumb. He whines, wide eyes anchored to your mouth as he licks his own lips, Adam’s apple working around a hard swallow. You pause, the corners of your lips curling up into a smile, his thumb still resting between your teeth. His eyes snap to yours again, and then suddenly he advances, driving his thick finger in all the way to the second knuckle, a steady pressure down on your tongue. It’s all you can do to tamp down on your gag reflex against the sudden penetration; the moan he wrings from you is entirely involuntary.

“Soft,” he muses as you close your lips around him, “so fucking soft.”

He has a way of making you weak in the knees. Usually it’s a smile that does it, a subtle brush of his hand down your arm at the bar, a husky vow to spread you across the next bed he finds and ravage your body senseless. There’s very rarely a reason to fight it, and there certainly isn’t one now, so you let your knees give out beneath you. He follows you with wide eyes as you lower yourself to the floor between his legs. Your gaze from his face never falters, but the moment your hands curl around the buckle of his belt, his hands jerk away from you, his finger falling out of your mouth with a _pop_ as he buries his hands in his own hair, throwing his head back.

“ _Fuck_ –” his voice leaves him in a high pitched sigh, barely audible above the din from the city outside and the ambient white noises standard to all hotel rooms of a certain middle-quality. 

You tug on the worn leather of his belt, the soft hiss of the leather crackling through the belt loops in front of your face, then clattering to the floor next to you, forgotten. You make quick work of the fastenings of his jeans as well, yanking his pants and his boxers halfway down his thighs in one swoop and you rock back on your heels to take in the visual. 

His cock curves up toward his stomach, thick and proud, a drop of pre-cum beading at the tip. You wrap one of your hands around the base of him, familiar territory by now. That was one thing you never had before you started going to bed with Pope–the things about your lovers that you can only learn from experience. You don’t have to guess at the pressure he likes, the angle that works best, or how he prefers you to twist your wrist just so. You just know exactly how to touch him to make his breath catch, his heart quicken. You lap out with your tongue, gathering the salty bead of liquid in your mouth, bitter and masculine, before pushing past, letting the velvet length of him slide against your tongue. 

“Honey, your mouth,” he whines, voice high and tight in his throat. “Fuck. Your _mouth_ , I’m–” 

You cut him off by cupping his balls, a gentle squeeze of the tender flesh between his legs and his body goes slack with a groan. He slumps against the counter, his hands falling to tickle the skin around your ears, fingertips dancing like smoke through the hair behind your temples. 

You close your eyes and focus on the slick slide of him against your tongue as you bob along him, pressing forward and playing with the edges of comfort. He’s everywhere, the sharp taste of him mixing sweet with your saliva, the heady musk of him enticing you closer and closer. Each time you drop down on him, you push the smallest bit further until you find your limit and live there, sucking, bobbing, licking quick against his tip before plunging back down. With every hitch of his breath, every broken, prideless sob that he lets fall from his lips, the throbbing between your legs beats into a desperate crescendo.

A tiny voice in the back of your mind chides you for the vulgar picture you must paint at his feet, filthy and wanton, saliva dribbling down your chin, lips wrapped around his cock. But if that’s the price to pay for prying out the noises cascading from his chest–rumbles of satisfaction, pleasure, heady moans of uncomprehending bliss as his thighs honest-to-God _tremble_ in front of you–so be it.

Santi bucks mindlessly, his head nudging against the soft flesh at the back of your mouth, then further. As much as you try to stop yourself, you can’t help the way your throat betrays you, rejecting the sudden intrusion, your eyes welling up as you cough and sputter around him. He tries to pull back in apology but his position flush against the counter doesn’t give him anywhere to escape when you follow him, latched around the tip of him as you hollow your cheeks and _suck_. 

You wrap your hands around his hips, fingers digging firm into the muscles of his ass as you jerk his hips close to you again. He cries out as your nose nearly buries into the coarse hair at his base as you choke around the desperate instincts screaming at you to pull away. Your name drifts gently downward from somewhere above you as a pair of hands settle in your hair and tug your head back. His pressure is insistent, commanding, pulling you taut like a bowstring as he arches your spine back to look up at him. 

“You actually–you _want_ me to fuck your face?”

The words are filthy and his firm grip at your scalp tightens into a sharp pain when you try to resist, to pull away and return to your task. His tone though–reverent, confused, pleading.

“I’m sorry, Captain,” you lick your lips with a grin. “Were your orders unclear?” 

He whimpers; this hardened mercenary-by-another-name, battleborn warrior down to his marrow, actually fucking _whimpers_. He gives you enough slack to relax your legs and arrange yourself on your ankles as he tilts your head back. Your mouth falls open in invitation–one that he accepts without hesitation, pressing back into your mouth as though he had never left. Your knees dig into the floor with the force of his incursion, core burning to maintain the position he’s chosen for you as he pushes a little deeper, further than your instincts would ever let you take him by yourself. 

His hips begin a gentle rock in and out of your mouth, each thrust a fraction bolder against your treacherous reflexes until he’s pushed entirely past, your throat working around him as you take him. You strain to meet his eyes, expecting to see his face harden, for lust to take over, the most frustrated, frenzied aspects of his nature to prevail, that impulsive part of him that had to be stomped out with years of training and discipline. Instead he veers the other direction; staring down at you like he’s not quite sure you’re real, an expression of dumbstruck awe plastered across his handsome features. 

“How did I get so fucking lucky?”

He wipes a tear from your eyes, one that was threatening to leap from the corner of your eye, tender even as he holds you immobile beneath him. He stares down rapturous wonder, even as you gag, breathing heavy through your nose to keep your throat relaxed. It’s a confusing array of sensation, your body simultaneously attempting to reject him and yet desperate for him to bury deeper and deeper until he becomes a permanent part of you. It’s too much, the rumbles of his voice tumble down his chest and radiate through your body, burrowing into the deepest corners of your consciousness until the throbbing between your legs becomes too much to bear. 

You make eye contact with him as his hips roll into your mouth and you have to snake your hands into your own pants. You send up a silent prayer of gratitude to whoever thought to put stretch into denim because you’re just barely able to slip your hand past your waistband without having to unbutton or unzip–tasks that are well beyond your abilities with the way Pope is using your mouth for his own pleasure.

The moment your fingers slide over your clit, your hips jolt, hungry and wild as though they have a mind of their own, bucking against your fingers in fevered desperation.

“Are–are you getting off to this?” He stutters, tilting his head sideways to watch your hand disappear into the waistband of your jeans. His voice rasps out of his throat, dry and rough like the coarsest of sandpaper, “Holy shit, baby.” 

Nothing exists except the weight of him in your mouth; the way he hits the back of your throat with every cautious thrust of his hips; your own fingers pressing tight circles against your own clit, slipping wet through your folds, shooting a sharp furl of embers through your body; his hot gaze staring down at you in open adoration, as though he’s the one on his knees offering veneration to a power he can’t even begin to comprehend. You lurch between the two merciless forces, the blunt head of his cock and the razor precision of your fingers until it’s too much. 

Your orgasm cleaves you apart, sharp slicing shocks of pleasure ripping out from your core to the very edges of you and back again, merciless ricochet through your body and out into his. You choke a mangled sob around him, rumbling up from your chest, and it reflects a dangerous feedback loop as his thrusts grow frantic in your mouth. Without his support, you’d probably fall limp on the floor, but the pressure of his hands against your scalp only drive you higher. 

“Sweetheart, _oh my god_ —“

Above you, his cries grow louder and wilder until he finally spills down your throat, his release filling your mouth in spurts faster than you can swallow. Still, you do your best, drinking him down as you can, dazed and slow and stupid as he pulls his cock out of your mouth. He drops to his knees immediately, cracking them against the utilitarian carpet of the hotel room. That’ll smart tomorrow, no doubt, but judging from the way he crashes his mouth to yours, he doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, he moans in languid satisfaction, softening the tight grip against your scalp into a gentle stroke. He swipes a thumb over your face, a noble attempt at wiping up the mess you couldn’t handle.

All he does is smear his cum across your cheek. 

“ _Shit_ , I’m sorry.” Santi reaches back to grab one of the soft white towels next to his head on the counter and starts blotting at your face until you’re conscious enough to pull your hand out of your jeans and take over with shaking hands. He twists again, reaches for one of the small paper cups next to the sink and fills it with water. He watches you down the cool liquid, refills the cup for you until you nod that you’ve had enough. “You okay, honey? That was intense.” 

“Yeah,” your voice is destroyed, your throat rasps sore and weak around your answers as he tucks himself back into his pants. You smile, a slight wince as your joints protest your position on the ground, settling back on your ass on the floor, stretching out the aching muscles of your legs. “More than okay.” 

He slides behind you, wraps his arms around your shoulders, nestles his face into your neck, a gentle kiss to the tender skin there. 

“It’s a good thing you couldn’t stop yelling at Benny earlier, huh? Think the guys will buy that?”


End file.
